


Moon Walk

by provocative_envy



Series: Chaos Theory [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Romance, Text messaging, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>It all starts at Scabior’s annual Frisbee golf tournament.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sort of.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well—</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>That’s when Greyback and Avery announce that Mulciber’s finally out of jail and they can get the band back together, at least.</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [ongoing fic giveaway on tumblr](http://provocative-envy.tumblr.com/post/136421908052/heyo). 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> xoxo

* * *

 

It all starts at Scabior’s annual Frisbee golf tournament.

Sort of.

Well—

That’s when Greyback and Avery announce that Mulciber’s _finally_ out of jail and they can get the band back together, at least.

 

* * *

 

(2:11 am) **_hey_**

(2:11 am) **_dipshit_**

(2:11 am) **_im done for the night_**

(2:12 am) **_set list for the thing tomorrow is on tom’s weird addams family trunk in the garage_**

(2:14 am) **_it’s 39 minutes_**

(2:14 am) **_ish_**

(2:35 am) **_oh_**

(2:35 am) **_and i got rid of that terrible faux pop emo bullshit you tried to sneak in_**

(2:35 am) **_honestly_**

(2:36 am) **_dave grohl needs to go back to 1994 and fucking stay there_**

(2:37 am) **_and take you with him apparently_**

(8:15 am) uhhhhh

(8:15 am) so

(8:16 am) i’m hella hungover 

(8:16 am) and like

(8:17 am) i cant find my shoes

(8:17 am) any of them

(8:17 am) fuck

(8:18 am) this neighborhood man

(8:18 am) its so SKETCHY

(8:19 am) anyway so like

(8:20 am) u know how i told u we’re playing a college party

(9:30 am) **_yeah_**

(9:32 am) **_????_**

(9:34 am) okay well first

(9:35 am) promise u won’t get mad

 

* * *

 

She’s the first thing he sees when he walks through the front door of the too-big, too-nice, too- _Restoration Hardware_ McMansion in the suburbs that’s holding this fabled fucking _not-college_ party that Bulstrode had brought them to.

And Antonin—

Antonin is smarter than he looks.

It takes a certain brand of ruthless, understated cunning to survive in his line of work. There are narcs to bribe and cops to avoid and hipster sociopath suppliers to keep happy. There are other, less _savory_ potential streams of revenue, too—the kind that burn the clutch and break the speedometer and fly right the fuck _past_ the customary three-to-five years you get with recreational drug deals. And those can be… _distracting_. Morally alienating. Tempting, but only if you hadn’t grown up drinking vodka in the cramped back rooms of smoke-scarred Brighton Beach bars, an Orthodox gold cross around your neck and a disapproving Old Country grandmother in your ear.

Antonin might be a criminal, but he’s not a fucking _monster_.

Which is why—

The girl.

He sees her, takes in bronze skin and high cheekbones and a mouth he wants to _do things_ to—do things _with_ —but then he pauses. _Cringes_. Because he’s _twenty-eight years old_ and this party is being thrown by a _high school senior_. And there’s jailbait and then there’s _hell-bait_ and he shakes his head as he mutters a quick Hail Mary under his breath—he skips the boring parts, but he’s pretty sure it still counts.

“We are too fucking _old to be here_ ,” he hisses, grabbing Scabior’s elbow and shoving him towards the backyard.

Scabior snorts. “ _You_ are too old to be here,” he corrects, combing his fingers through the flamingo-pink fringe of his hair. “ _I’m_ fine. Get your shit together, Ant-Man.”

 

* * *

 

When it happens, they’re halfway through a Soundgarden cover that Antonin would bet his grandmother’s antique Faberge wristwatch none of the Abercrombie catalogue extras at this party know the first fucking thing about.

And the grips on his drumsticks are tacky and sweat-soaked, rubbery against his palms, and he’s lifting his chin to squint across the backyard, ignoring the awkward off-tempo lurch of the crowd on the patio, and he’s wondering, absently, if the beer in that keg he’d spotted earlier is as stupidly expensive as the rest of the alcohol he’d seen—and then his gaze is catching, no, _caught_ , on a pair of liquid, unfathomably _expressive_ dark brown eyes, flushed cheeks and a too-short gingham sundress and a crinkled blue Solo cup—

The final lingering chords of Mulciber’s guitar ring out, Scabior fucking _stage dives_ like an eighties hair-metal _asshole_ , and a freckled red-haired girl by the barbeque scoffs so loudly that it basically _echoes_ around the imported travertine tile counters.

Antonin pockets his drumsticks and jumps down onto the grass.

Almost immediately, he’s accosted by some drunk skinny blonde girl who’s being held up by two guys he thinks he might recognize from a frat he occasionally sells to.

“Do you know where Pansy is _?_ ” the blonde girl asks, what sounds like a slurred sort-of giggle getting lodged in the back of her throat. “We can’t find Pansy.”

“Who the fuck is _Pansy_ ,” Antonin says, blankly.

The blonde girl shrieks, flapping her hands in excitement, and the dark-skinned guy on her left releases a pent-up, long-suffering sigh.

“Pansy’s my _best friend_ in the _entire world_ , like, _matching henna tattoos at the mall_ best friend, like, I _love her_ more than _Oreos_ and we’re going to be _roommates_ when we go to _college_ and she’s _so much better_ than my _real sister_ who, like, gave me _unicorn stickers_ for my _birthday_ , like, what a _bitch_ , I had a _registry_ , you know—”

The dark-skinned guy shoots Antonin an amused, semi-apologetic grimace and leads the blonde girl away.

Antonin blinks, furrows his brow, realizes he’s lost sight of the pretty, pretty girl with the red lips and the sad eyes and has to shake his fucking head at the unwelcome turn his thoughts have taken. He rationalizes that she could be eighteen— _nineteen_ , even; twenty if he’s lucky—and that it isn’t technically _creepy_ unless he allows it to be. He blinks again. Huffs out a disbelieving breath. Decides he needs a really stiff fucking drink, and makes his way inside, to the ridiculous goddamn _showpiece_ of a kitchen. There’s so much stainless steel he feels like he’s back at the Hall of Mirrors on Coney Island.

It’s as he’s considering the merits of a frosted bottle of _French_ vodka—god rest his grandmother’s soul—that he registers feminine laughter and someone being shoved at him, warm, smooth skin grazing his exposed forearms, touch fleeting and drink sloshing—

He glances over, just in time to witness the girl from before trip backwards into the polished granite island—and he thinks, in somewhat of a daze, that she’s even prettier up close.

Drunker, too.

He frowns.

 

* * *

 

Her name is Cho Chang, and she’s twenty-one, and she plays _soccer_ at some fancy-sounding private college in _Virginia_ , and she’s—

Sweet.

She’s _sweet_.

She bites her lower lip when she’s flustered, and her voice is soft and gentle and melodic, like a trio of fucking pan-flute playing cherubs have taken up residence in her vocal chords. There’s a quiet kind of _wariness_ to her body language, as if she’s not quite sure about whatever it is that she’s doing but is determined to go through with it anyway.

Antonin is good at reading people. He has to be. And something about how this girl is looking at him is making his stomach clench. Roll. _Hurt_. She smiles at him, dreamy and shy, when he makes a shitty joke about Scabior’s hair, and she sways into his chest, listless and oddly graceful, when a blond guy in a Yale sweatshirt bumps into her from behind, and before he can shed the distinctly _uneasy_ feeling plucking at the muscles of his chest—she’s plastering a sloppy, too-wet kiss onto his mouth and he knows, he _knows_ , he knows he could take her home.

That had been the goal, twenty minutes earlier.

But now—she tastes like tequila and salt and strawberry cheesecake, actually, and she’s _fragile_ against his body, folding her shoulders under his arms and flinging delicate wrists around his neck, and she’s—clearly off-balance. Clearly too _out of it_.

He pries her off. “Hey,” he says, careful to speak slowly. “Where’s your friend?”

Cho shrugs.

Peeks up at him from beneath long, long lashes—with uncertainty; _vulnerability_.

His gut twists, and he has the most _absurd_ fucking urge to not be a dick about this.

So.

So, he sighs, tucks her back under his arm, and leads her outside to his truck.

 

* * *

 

(2:00 am) what do u use to get rid of bloodstains

(2:22 am) ???

(3:00 am) **_bleach_**

(3:01 am) **_maybe_**

(3:01 am) **_idk man im busy_**

(3:01 am) **_ask the internet_**

(3:02 am) can’t

(3:03 am) **_…why not_**

(3:07 am) **_????_**

(3:08 am) watch lists

(3:08 am) **_watch lists_**

(3:08 am) yeah

(3:09 am) scary shit bro

(3:10 am) my neighbor sent his mom an ecard for bastille day and no one’s seen him since

(3:11 am) **_you need to stop downloading matt damon movies_**

(3:11 am) nah 

(3:12 am) i’m all about keanu now

(3:12 am) dude’s got like one expression

(3:12 am) but he fucking owns that shit

(3:13 am) **_right_**

(3:13 am) **_anyway_**

(3:13 am) **_im busy right now_**

(3:13 am) **_so_**

(3:14 am) **_fuck off_**

(3:15 am) oh?

(3:40 am) huh

(3:41 am) fascinating

(3:41 am) u should definitely tap that

 

* * *

 

He takes her through a McDonald’s drive-thru and spends twenty bucks on French fries and chicken nuggets.

She digs through the grease-stained bag in the passenger’s seat and fucking _pouts_ when she discovers there isn’t any Ranch dressing.

He sighs _again_ , flicks on his turn signal, and tries to remember where the nearest 24-hour grocery store is.

 

* * *

 

(4:15 am) did riddle tell u 

(4:15 am) about the portland deal

(4:16 am) he wants us there in like three days

(4:16 am) do u think its gonna be like tampa

(4:17 am) like who the fuck knew neighborhood watch could be that vicious am i right

(4:17 am) fucking

(4:18 am) shotguns and shit

(4:18 am) rly good baked potatoes tho

(4:25 am) dolohov

(4:26 am) ??????????????

(4:26 am) antonin

(4:27 am) ant man

(4:27 am) ant n tonic

(4:30 am) dudeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

(4:35 am) ???????

(4:40 am) should i buy us umbrellas on amazon

(4:41 am) probably right

(4:43 am) fuck i get a discount if i set up monthly umbrella deliveries

(4:44 am) do u think that’s worth it

(4:49 am) ??????????????????

(4:52 am) fuck u man u get a ladybug umbrella

 

* * *

 

They get back to his apartment and she seems a little more clear-headed, but not by much; she sits on a nail studded stool at his breakfast bar, and eats an entire large fry and exactly five chicken nuggets before she notices his DVD cabinet.

“Oh, I _love_ this movie,” she says, kicking off her heels and wobbling a little as she goes over to pick something specific out. It’s a shitty romantic comedy about a woman hiring a prostitute to be her date to a wedding. Antonin is almost positive he only owns it because Scabior has a god-awful sense of humor. “Can we?”

Antonin pauses, instincts blaring like fire alarms in his ears, even as he grabs two bottles of water and joins her on the couch—because this isn’t a new game. He’s played before. There’s a pile of fucking condoms in his fucking _coffee table_ , for fuck’s sake.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later she has her head on his chest and her arm across his waist and she’s using the pad of her thumb to rub tiny, downright _provocative_ circles against his lower abdomen. He shifts in his seat. Manages not to shudder. Feels a familiarly intoxicating heat simmer to life in his bloodstream.

“Are those Russian _nesting_ dolls?” she suddenly asks, a hint of sincere curiosity coloring her tone.

He jerks, slightly, and then coughs, looking at the top shelf of a nearby bookcase; the dolls are shrouded in late-night shadows, partially hidden by a still-in-the-box Italian cheese-making kit.

“Uh, yeah, they were my grandmother’s,” he answers, internally flinching at the past-tense reminder. “She raised me.”

Cho stops the movie, tilting her face up, and there’s a glint of thoughtful understanding in her eyes as she studies him.

And the moment stretches.

On and on and _on_.

And he isn’t really _surprised_ when she leans in to kiss him—with tongue, with hesitation, with _intent_ —and he kisses her back, all the while wondering if he should push her way since he can’t _tell_ what she fucking _wants_ , not from this night and not from him.

But he keeps fucking kissing her, because she tastes good and she feels good and he’s not a fucking _saint_ , is he, and her hand is creeping towards his belt buckle and his fingers are brushing the undersides of her breasts as he maps the curve of her waist and she’s straddling his lap, breath hitching, and he’s rolling his hips, pulse thundering, and it’s then—

The DVD menu pops up, an annoying elevator-music string quartet startling him out of his reverie—his _haze_ —and he rears back.

It’s probably for the best.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is fucking terrible.

“You didn’t— _we_ didn’t—” She stumbles over the question, and he fights off the urge to groan into his coffee.

“Nah. You were…pretty out of it.”

She doesn’t reply for a while, just twists his sheets between her fingers, and when she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears he notices that her face is pinched into a frown.

“That wouldn’t have stopped most guys,” she finally says, sounding more confident.

He smirks, utterly humorless. “Like ‘em sentient, unfortunately,” he retorts, picking at the label of his creamer—it reads _Hazelnut_ but that can’t be right. “Did you need a ride somewhere?”

She stares at him some more, and he’s a little unnerved. There’s something _about_ her—something brittle and desperate and impossibly _alert_ that makes him want to run away.

“I’m not normally so…reckless,” she offers, voice wavering. “I’ve never—I don’t—”

The tears are about as surprising as the kiss the night before had been.

Still, he freezes when she starts to cry in earnest, choking on her words, fractured fragments of whole sentences coming out blurry and indistinct— _my boyfriend died six months ago and I’m supposed to be moving on and everyone else is already_ over it _and I don’t know why I can’t be and why I’m not and it’s confusing and it’s hard and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem_ —

Antonin listens, because he _gets_ grief like this; the swirling cancerous _mass_ that leaves a gaping hole of a wound, festering with self-destruction. There isn’t a cure. He’d searched and searched and _searched_ , and he’d come up empty. Emptier. With bruised knuckles and an idiotic tattoo on his arm and the criminal record his grandmother had been so, so afraid of.

And this girl—Cho—she doesn’t have to say it, but she would’ve regretted him. Intensely, eventually. And that’s an insight that soothes rather than stings, because he’s never going to see her again, no, but at least she’ll be able to remember him as someone who didn’t take advantage of her.

He hadn’t had that.

 

* * *

 

(5:45 pm) hey

(5:45 pm) i need help moving something

(5:46 pm) can u come over later

(5:48 pm) **_uh_**

(5:49 pm) **_what is it_**

(5:50 pm) **_?_**

(5:50 pm) **_im in the middle of something_**

(5:51 pm) what the fuck are u in the middle of

(5:52 pm) its ur day off

(5:52 pm) and im ur only friend

(5:53 pm) ooooooh

(5:54 pm) are u on a date

(5:55 pm) **_no_**

(5:56 pm) **_im buying a dream catcher for tom_**

(5:57 pm) **_did you know there’s like_**

(5:57 pm) **_a new age gift shop or whatever_**

(5:57 pm) **_like INSIDE whole foods_**

(5:58 pm) **_and they sell this tea that can make the rival of your subconscious choice feel sad if you drink it under the full moon_**

(5:58 pm) **_how rad is that_**

(5:59 pm) yeah that’s fucking cool

(6:00 pm) the guy that owns it really knows his way around a pair of plaid pants

(6:01 pm) and a tagine

(6:01 pm) rumor has it he boned stevie nicks once

(6:02 pm) respect the hell out of that dude

(6:04 pm) anyway 

(6:05 pm) i acquired a piano this afternoon and need ur help hiding it from the feds

(6:10 pm) **_do u want a tiny cast iron cauldron_**

(6:11 pm) **_im gonna get one and use it for peanut butter m &ms_**

(6:12 pm) **_or like_**

(6:12 pm) **_the blood of my enemies_**

(6:13 pm) **_same difference_**

 

* * *

 

Eight months pass.

He goes on a bunch of bullshit delivery trips with Riddle and Scabior, almost gets arrested over New Year’s Eve in fucking _Idaho_ , of all places, starts to spend more and more time with Crabbe and Goyle at their frat house because they’re not _too bad_ when they’re not trying to build miniature Stonehenge replicas out of toothpicks and Chia pets—but it’s spring break for most colleges in the area when Mulciber scrounges up another party for the band to play, this time at a palatial beach house in South Carolina.

And while there aren’t _too many_ things Antonin expects from this party—he figures he can network a little, give out some samples, expand his customer base without having to try because drunk college girls fucking _love_ rough-around-the-edges guys of indeterminate age with villain accents and scuffed leather jackets—

Anyway.

He doesn’t expect a lot.

He definitely doesn’t expect to run into Cho Chang again.

 

* * *

 

His first thought is that she looks—happier. Better. Less sad and less breakable and less like she wants to curl into a ball and cry.

She stares at him for a minute, blatantly astonished and visibly apprehensive, and then she blushes. _Hard_. Gnaws on her lower lip and sweeps her eyes from his face to his chest and—very, very quickly—even lower.

“Uh—how’ve you…been?” he asks her, stiltedly.

“Good,” she says, immediately flashing him a small, genuine smile. A _sweet_ smile. “I’ve been really good.”

“Good,” he repeats, scratching at the back of his neck. He has no idea what to say to her. “Do you—uh, want a drink?”

“That’d be—good,” she replies, teeth clamping down on her lip again.

His swallows.

He wastes a few minutes out on the deck where the keg is, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Scabior arguing with a strangely familiar red-haired girl in microscopic denim cut-offs who’s beating him at beer pong—but when Antonin turns back around with two half-full cups, he realizes Cho has followed him outside with a firmly resolute, transparently _nervous_ expression on her face. She’s steady on her feet, and the high-waisted floral-patterned skirt she has on is light and airy around her knees.

“You alright?” he asks, holding out a cup; she takes it from him, but doesn’t drink anything.

“I thought about you a lot, you know,” she says, almost too fast for him to understand.

His eyebrows fly up. “What?” he bleats. “I mean—really?”

She fiddles with the gleaming silver pendant of her necklace. “Yeah,” she replies, and there’s a _steel_ in her voice—in the angle of her posture and the elegant arch of her spine—that hadn’t been there before. “And I—I _wondered_ , too.”

He swallows. Clenches his jaw. Curls his hands into fists so he won’t be tempted to reach out and _touch_.

“Wondered about what?”

She steps forward, close enough that he can see the lone permanent-ink black dot of a freckle in her eye.

“About you,” she murmurs. “About what it would’ve been like.”

And then, just like she had a summer ago, a year ago, a _lifetime_ ago—

She catches his gaze.

Bites her lip.

His jaw unclenches.

 

* * *

 

(9:33 am) man 

(9:34 am) FUCK prissy fucking college girls who leave their fucking UNDERWEAR under my fucking PILLOW like i want a fucking SOUVENIR

(9:36 am) like

(9:36 am) shit 

(9:37 am) OBVIOUSLY i do not

(9:37 am) OBVIOUSLY a one night stand is

(9:38 am) like

(9:38 am) meant to be for ONE NIGHT u feel me

(9:50 am) like

(9:51 am) wtf man am i supposed to like

(9:52 am) wash them

(9:53 am) and return them with a fucking promise ring or some shit

(9:55 am) jesus

(10:01 am) like

(10:02 am) what kind of BULLSHIT

(10:05 am) my apartment isn’t a fucking victorias secret changing room u know

(10:12 am) like

(10:16 am) borderline fucking DISRESPECTFUL isnt it

(10:22 am) like

(10:30 am) **_so you want to sleep with her again_**

(10:30 am) **_thats the subtext here right_**

(10:33 am) fuck you ant man

 

* * *

 

They return to D.C.

Antonin keeps sleeping with Cho.

She comes over a lot, begins to place candles in pretty glass jars all around his apartment, scents like _vanilla cupcake_ and _mint green tea_ and _butterscotch bonfire_ practically infusing the goddamn floorboards after a while; and he makes her his grandmother’s dumplings when she brings up the fucking _Russian Tea Room_ , for fuck’s _sake_ , and she leaves a stack of neatly-pressed black aprons in his dresser drawer when she gets a weekend job at a restaurant near the Hill, and eventually, so swiftly and so _slowly_ , too, that he barely even notices—there are sleek, salon-skinny bottles of shampoo and conditioner in his shower, an _adorably_ tiny white wicker basket full of lipsticks on his bathroom counter, a pink electric toothbrush and a zebra-handled curling iron and some kind of shiny silver _medieval instrument of torture_ that she uses on her eyelashes—

_Gossip Girl_ is in his Netflix queue.

Toasted Coconut flavored almond milk is in his refrigerator.

Turquoise linen _throw pillows_ are on his couch.

And he doesn’t _mind_ , is the thing. He’d be fucking stupid to. Cho is beautiful, and honest, and unfailingly _kind_ , and, ultimately, much too good for him. He _knows_ that. He’s a twenty-nine year old drug dealer with no living family to speak of and a life savings he has to keep in _hundred dollar bills_ inside a metal lockbox under his bed. His lifestyle had been significantly cooler five years earlier, and it’s probably only a matter of time before she understands that and moves the fuck on. Which is a thought that—shouldn’t _panic_ him nearly as much as it does, holy fucking _hell_.

“You realize I’m, like, a _really_ shitty guy, right?” he blurts out one night while they’re watching a Will Ferrell movie about racecars and fried chicken. “Like. There’s _good_ and then there’s _bad_ , and I’m pretty definitively on the _bad_ side.”

Cho glances over at him with a flatly amused smile. “I think you have some things to figure out, yes, but I _also_ think you’re already halfway there.”

“But—”

She snorts out a laugh. “I love you,” she says, like it’s easy. Like it’s _simple_. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And _that_.

That brings him up short.

“Oh,” he mutters, dumbstruck and awestruck and lightning-struck and just— _all_ _the strucks_. “I mean. _Oh_.”

She reaches for another cookie-dough bite, pops it in her mouth, and there’s melted chocolate on her lips and light brown sugar on her tongue and he supposes that she might be about to say something else, but he can’t—he _has_ to—

He kisses her, and he finally lets himself wonder what’s next.

 

* * *

 

(10:22 am) **_i wish someone had like_**

(10:22 am) **_shanked tom in prison_**

(10:23 am) **_he’s such a dick_**

(10:23 am) **_with his like_**

(10:23 am) **_alpaca wool beanies from like third world andes co-ops_**

(10:24 am) **_and whenever i do pick ups from him there are literally_**

(10:24 am) **_a million fucking coffee beans in the duffle_**

(10:25 am) **_like_**

(10:25 am) **_what is that_**

(10:25 am) **_who does that_**

(10:25 am) **_who drinks that much fucking coffee man_**

(11:00 am) **_oh yeah_**

(11:00 am) **_snape called in his favor_**

(11:01 am) **_for like_**

(11:02 am) **_lucius malfoy? that guy who smirks a lot on fox news_**

(11:02 am) **_with the really great hair_**

(11:03 am) **_i volunteered us to like babysit his son and his delinquent friends_**

(11:03 am) **_“keep them out of the tabloids, mr. dolohov”_**

(11:05 am) **_weird as fuck_**

(11:05 am) **_i kept waiting for someone to call snape the godfather_**

(11:10 am) **_so yeah_**

(11:10 am) **_we’re going to maine for the summer_**

(11:11 am) **_some kind of fucking stupid microbrewery rebuild_**

(11:20 am) **_cho’s coming too_**

(11:20 am) **_you’re going to be nice_**

(11:21 am) **_and you’re not going to dye her hair in her sleep_**

(11:21 am) **_and you’re not going to put fucking SoCo in the coffeemaker_**

(12:12 pm) yeah sure w/e

(12:12 pm) but more importantly

(12:13 pm) didn’t i fucking tell u

(12:13 pm) when i found that huge ass stack of etsy receipts in riddle’s trunk

(12:13 pm) dude has a fucking knitting board on fucking pinterest

(12:14 pm) like

(12:14 pm) he belongs to a yarn of the month club

(12:14 pm) he makes me sign for that shit when he’s hiding from ups 

(12:17 pm) anyway

(12:30 pm) ur girlfriend would look dope as hell with some red bangs

(12:30 pm) tell her that ok

 

* * *

 


End file.
